by Kat Bastion
Iain threw his head back, deep laughter booming from his lungs. The rich sound bounced off the stone wall behind him, threatening to overtake the clash of swordplay in the field below. I groaned at his uncontained amusement, glaring at him.
He powered down his annoying outburst to a twitching smirk and stepped closer, extending an arm toward the castle’s main entrance. “Aye, Isa. Rowena will make us some food.”
He pressed his other hand into the small of my back. I brushed past him, but his longer strides closed the gap in seconds, and he silently appeared back at my side.
Iain’s inherent dominance had never failed to set me off-balance, even when I’d only been a casual spectator at the Highland games. I cast a furtive glance at the man beside me—the only link to my world and my apparent guide in his. Although I’d only begun to know him back in the future-turned-chronological-past California—pieced together from superficial conversations at a few Highland events over the last two years—I already sensed the medieval version of Iain held differences that ran miles deeper than a rougher exterior.
The man was intensity personified; deadly confidence radiated from him. I wouldn’t have been surprised if Iain had stared the Devil in the face and won the encounter without a single bead of sweat. His calm fearsomeness had likely given opponents at least a moment’s pause before they’d advanced to their certain defeat.
And yet, I found the protective blanket of his powerful presence soothing to my chaotic mind. The silent balm washed over me, giving my frazzled nerves a much-needed break.
The fleeting peace ended as a large stone-arched entryway opened before us, encasing a massive oak door. Iain gripped the iron handle. The hinges creaked as he pushed it open and led us into the great hall. One step into the enormous room further entrenched me into never-never land, the striking fantasy wrapping itself around me as it stole my breath away.
The rich scents of salt and fat from cooking meat flooded my senses, making my mouth water. Tri-pronged iron frames in each corner held amber beeswax tapers, their flames dancing in the air current. The wooden floor, covered in fresh rushes and a purple haze of dried heather, echoed hollow tones beneath our boots. A fire glowed beneath logs in a stone hearth so large, even six-and-a-half-foot Iain could step inside without ducking.
Two stout women bustled about, removing the remains of the prior meal. They tossed bones speckled with sparse meat into the snapping jaws of three wolfhounds whose fierceness and size suggested they weren’t far removed from their namesake. The growling beasts each staked out separate territories between ornately carved armchairs in front of the hearth, settling down to gnaw on their afternoon snacks.
Iain continued into the room, dwarfing the women as he spoke to them in murmured tones. I roamed around feeling as if I’d walked into a museum brought to life, my eyes drinking in every detail, my mind drowning in everything I wanted to touch, feel . . . experience.
A giant tapestry depicting a battle scene drew me to the far wall. The quality of the piece was astonishing. I laughed softly. Of course it looked vibrant and new; something recently woven would. Brilliant colors and intricate embroidery showed the experiences of Iain’s own clansmen. I feathered my fingertips across the plush surface, amazed at the workmanship.
Appraising an artistic rendition of an actual event made me worry about the time paradox. I stood in a space in time not meant for me. Every action I made undoubtedly caused an altered consequence. My mind swam with the possibilities of millions of tiny changes rippling forward, causing cataclysmic effects in years yet to unfold. The crisp colors slowly hazed into a jumbled mosaic as my strained mind hit overload.
I sank deeply into a suffocating quicksand, barely registering a hand grasping my elbow. Unable to respond, I remained frozen. Gossamer threads that had tethered me to reality snapped, casting me adrift.
Iain tugged me toward him, his strong arms enveloping me in an unexpected embrace. Spent from the overwhelming shock of the last hour’s events, my shoulders sagged. I broke down crying as his protective warmth melted the last of the tough outer shell I’d been clinging to.
I’d never let adversity reduce me to tears; showing weakness wasn’t an option for a woman battling for recognition in a male-dominated profession. The hair-trigger emotional mess I’d become here, however, had lost the capacity to care.
For what seemed like an eternity, he simply held me. Tightening his solid grip, he placed a kiss on the top of my head, leaving his lips there.
The intriguing paradoxes of the man—hard edged but tender, accepting but inflexible, twenty-first century past and medieval future—had me more than a little unsteady on my feet. Yet his two-hundred-fifty-pound, rock-solid frame had become the support holding me upright. My hands slid tentatively around his waist. During my weakest moment, I found solace in the embrace of a man I hardly knew, and yet, felt bound to by an inexplicable connection. Guess I’d become a paradox too.
The downpour across his chest eventually reduced to an occasional teardrop, my sobs turning to hiccups. Iain gently rubbed my back, pulling away without unlocking his powerful arms.
“Doona fret, Isa.”
He tucked a finger under my chin, tilting my face up. I blinked away the last of my tears as reassuring eyes looked into mine. His dark brows raised slightly, compassion relaxing the features of his face. “I’ll send you home if I can, lass. If not, I’ll protect you. I’ll make you happy.” Every whisper left his lips as a potent promise, seeping into my heart.
Stripped bare and completely vulnerable, I was rendered speechless by his tender assurance. The entire world—along with any worry or care I’d ever had—ceased to exist in the protection of his arms.
I nodded, raising my hands to the woolen fabric draped across his chest. I wiped my face dry as my hiccups subsided. Numbness settled into my mind, a reprieve from the daunting anxiety that had nearly overtaken me.
With an arm locked tight around me, Iain led us to the nearest of two long tables. His firm hands guided me down onto a bench, preventing my shaking knees from buckling. In the wake of my emotional outburst, I stared at the grain in the wood running lengthwise along the table like a zombie entranced.
Iain gripped the edge of a wooden stool with one hand and planted it beneath him, sitting near me at the corner. “I’ve told Mairi to fetch a proper gown for you to wear ’til others can be made.”
I glanced down at my clothing. Although my appearance hadn’t appeared to attract notice, blending in seemed wise.
The two women rushed back into the room, carrying boards laden with cheese, meat, and two rounds of hollowed-out, crusty bread filled with an aromatic porridge. My stomach growled in response, my mouth watering at the rich fragrant stew wafting under my nose.
Without a word, I devoured my food. The thick, salty bites—full of meat and chunky root vegetables—fueled my body and mind, enabling my brain cells to fire again. Iain watched me as he picked at his food, furrowing his brows.
Unsolved puzzle pieces floated through my mind as I intermittently glanced his way. How much had I ever really known about modern-day Iain? We’d normally debated history facts, training techniques, or the likelihood of my accepting his dinner invitation, so I’d never really learned much about the man. Perhaps my unfamiliarity of him would be a blessing, since the Iain that sat beside me was clearly a different man or, at the very least, a more complex one.
As my thoughts turned more lucid, I discovered my voice again. “Iain, how did you know my name? How do you remember me from my time while still being laird in yours?” I stared at him as I tossed the most troublesome question out in the open.
“I’ve been thinkin’ on that verra thing myself. I doona know for certain.” He rubbed his bearded chin. “When you . . . we . . . came here, I fell to the floor. Pain exploded through my head. Memories from both times melded together, fightin’ for space in there.” He knocked his temple.
A logical explanation, if one disregarded the laws of th
e Universe. “Where did your body go? If all your memories are here”—I pointed to his chest—“what’s left of twenty-first-century you?”
He broke our gaze as the women brought us silver goblets. I grasped mine two-handed, eagerly drinking down several swallows of the mellow honeyed ale before Iain replied. “And the next question swimmin’ round in that bonnie head of yours: Is your body left back there too?”
The far-fetched idea of my body and soul splitting in two hadn’t occurred to me. Great. If I gave credence to the notion, part of me would be doomed to madness, lost in the past, while a fully functioning Isobel carried on with her life in the future. I laughed at the unbelievable implications while I broke off pieces of the hard bread and dipped them into my stew.
My amusement at his insane suggestion trailed off as he continued. “I think the magick split me in two with the purpose of retrievin’ you. Now that I’ve fetched the woman intended for me, it snapped me back, like a rubber band. You, by design of the box’s magick, were meant to be here, and therefore arrived here, in this time, whole.”
“How insightful,” I remarked.
With the jeweled dirk and metal two-pronged fork I’d been provided, I cut a piece of venison and forked the meat into my mouth. I rolled the gamey morsel over my tongue, weighing Iain’s words. Regardless of an earlier pledge to send me back if he could, did he truly want me to go? His matter-of-fact interpretation sounded like he only wanted what the box did: to bring him his soul mate. If his goal had been achieved by the magick that brought me here, why would he ever want me to leave?
A rush of commotion burst through the door. Robert and another man, both leviathans from my seated perspective, strode toward us. Iain shifted back on his stool as the men addressed him from across the table. Neither paid me any attention. The red-headed newcomer rattled on in Gaelic—something about a clan dispute or territory issue, but I couldn’t be certain.
They finished their report, and Iain nodded his understanding as their attention shifted to me. Iain switched languages and said, “This is Isobel. She’s come for our celebration.”
Robert, whose dark brows, angled cheekbones, and strong jaw made him seem sinister compared to the fairer man next to him, spoke with a brogue thicker than Iain’s. “Why are you speakin’ English?” He scowled at Iain then squinted at me, turning an already-fierce countenance deadly.
I never broke eye contact with Robert. My back straightened. A wicked smile stretched across my face, temporary insanity taking over as I answered Robert’s question to Iain with the best brogue imitation I could muster, “Aye, Robert, I am indeed English. I’m here for the festival tae find me a suitable Scot. What think ye?”
A feather settling to the ground could’ve been clearly heard in the deafening silence that followed. Only the crackling of the dry logs in the hearth pierced the heavy seconds. I didn’t bother to look at Iain to see his fury at either my having spoken or the actual words themselves—I felt him burning in anger beside me, like a nuclear reactor melting down.
Robert barked out laughter, clapping his friend on the shoulder. “Duncan. What think you? Have you ever seen such a bonnie lass come on our lands?”
Duncan shook his head, grinning at me. “Nay. She’s a bold tongue too.”
The brazen compliments surprised me, causing my cheeks to heat. I smiled. My foray into dreamland had the potential to be more fun than I’d thought. I’d never been courted by any man, let alone several, and I failed to remember men ever finding me so attractive—well, besides Iain.
Iain’s snarl choked off their laughter. “The suitable Scot would be me . . . lass.”
I slowly turned my gaze toward him, meeting rage-filled eyes. His clipped words were the clear command of his claim . . . to me.
The dust had settled in my mind. Stuck operating by the rules of a new world, I resolved to stay true to myself. Strong, independent, and spirited, I refused to cave to any man’s forced authority over me, or to some unknown magick’s supposed prophecy of my future.
I raised a single brow, speaking in a calm, low tone. “We shall see . . . Laird.”
CHAPTER Five
Iain scraped his stool back and left. His irritation hung heavy in the cavernous room. The men followed, dismissing me as they all deliberated some issue in unintelligible Gaelic. The heavy door slammed behind them, my companions diminishing from three energetic men to a trio of napping wolfhounds.
Iain’s indifference for my welfare seemed a tactical ploy. It worked; being disregarded by one’s only connection sucked. Fear crept in, magnifying my core concern: Who could I trust to help me other than Iain?
I shrugged off the apprehension, unwilling to submit to vulnerability. Forced dependence on Iain chafed almost as much as the acceptance of an altered reality. My obstinate nature fueled a need to find others to rely on—I needed to find an ally.
Motivated, I charged off in the opposite direction of the supposedly sleeping beasts. After only a few steps, I jarred to a halt, narrowly avoiding a collision with a brave maid piloting blindly behind clothing stacked high in her arms. Her cheeks were flushed pink, and wisps of her auburn hair fell loose about her round face.
She spoke Gaelic, and I shook my head, not understanding what she’d said. “Do you speak English?” Her wide-eyed hesitation reached my sluggish brain. I’d forgotten the Scottish hated the “arrogant” English.
The maid recovered and gave me a weak smile. “Aye. English. Gowns.” She held up the evidence. I fought a smile, not wanting my amusement to be mistaken as mocking.
“You’re Mairi?” I asked.
She nodded.
“I’m Isobel.”
She nodded again, turned, and briskly walked toward wide stone steps lining the front wall. Her glance and a head jerk over her shoulder wordlessly suggested I follow. I darted after her.
A cozy chamber on the next level held a twin-sized bed, a low wooden chest, and a small chair and table next to an unlit hearth. A light layer of dust coated every surface in the musty room. Mairi systematically laid out her items onto the bed: two gowns, two linen chemises, a leather-braided belt, and their folded clan plaid. She placed flimsy, brown leather shoes on the floor.
“Thank you,” I said. Her blank expression told me she had no idea what I’d said. I pointed a finger at the outfits, feeling like a tour guide in my own foreign movie where someone forgot to add the subtitles.
While I assessed the limited clothing options, a soft click of the door marked Mairi’s swift departure before I even had a chance to say goodbye. I shook my head, snorting, figuring the welcoming committee must have been invented sometime later than the thirteenth century.
Although no fire yet burned in the room, the air’s ambient chill didn’t bother my thin Golden-Coast blood. I pulled my sweater over my head. While stacking discarded clothes on the corner of the chest, I considered leaving on my black, French lace bra and panties, but opted for commando under the chemise, lovingly tucking my only lingerie inside the folded skirt.
With a final tug of the plainer of the two gowns over the linen slip, I’d transformed into a medieval woman. I looked down, straightening the pale yellow fabric. The color matched the ends of my hair curling over my breast. Cinched ties, laced across the bodice, compensated for a slightly large fit. The brown toes of my comfortable boots peeked out from the floor-length hem. I defiantly plucked up the provided slippers and deposited them next to the stack on the chest.
The clan plaid remained. I admired the fabric’s green, black, and gold pattern, remembering historical record. Kilts, or plaids as I liked to call them, did not exist prior to the sixteenth century. I grinned.
If only they knew what I’ve seen. Nothing like rewriting history books from firsthand knowledge. I shook my head. The odds of that happening, short of dragging their self-righteous, narrow-minded asses back in time for irrefutable evidence, hovered around nil, zilch . . . nada.
I wrapped the awkward fabric around me, starting at my
waist. Material pooled at my feet when I finished, a glaring clue I’d done something wrong. I began again at the other end, which resulted in bunched pleats falling around my hips. After three failed attempts, I growled, tossing the unwieldy mess back on the bed. They want the clan plaid on me? They’ll have to put it there.
Muted sounds of clanging metal drifted up from the training field. I crossed to the tapestry on the wall, peeling back a corner of the heavy cloth, revealing the courtyard below where shirtless soldiers sparred in small groups. Beyond them, Iain and Duncan stepped out from the smithy.
Iain stopped. He tilted his face up, locking onto my gaze. Power emanated from that ruggedly handsome man, easily detected even from my vantage point. He smirked at me and continued walking toward his men on the field. I dropped the tapestry, annoyed at his never-ending cockiness.
Riled, I stormed from the room to learn about Iain’s castle and its people. With firm belief in the old adage knowledge is power, I intended to become more and more powerful by the minute.
I trotted downstairs, searching along the outer wall. A good distance from the sleeping chambers, I found the garderobe. The medieval bathroom’s design had two snug-fitting doors, one after the other, preventing odors from escaping into the hall. Two clerestory windows circulated the air and brought in light. On a high wooden table, folded linens and lavender sprigs sat alongside a water pitcher, soap rounds, and a small basin. Near the wall, a low wooden stool with a center hole, sat over an angled tunnel, likely leading to a moat or cesspool. My spirits lifted. A simple room gave me one less worry amid a thousand lost conveniences.
Once I’d taken care of business, I backtracked. My steps slowed as the castle’s uniqueness settled into my awakening brain. This was not Brodie Castle, at least not the Brodie Castle in modern-day Scotland; it wouldn’t be built for another three hundred years. Architectural details I’d witnessed in Iain’s castle raced through my mind: the massive, curved corner towers; the size and number of windows . . . and the gigantic groin-vault ceiling in the great hall. My pulse quickened with my pace as I rushed back to study the anomaly.